Cap politely placed backwards on table before him,
the man, thirty something, alone, wears clean white worn
Rays baseball shirt, uniform-issue in good repair.
Glued to pennant game on the overhead,
he sips beer, cheers, claps his knees, flirts a bit,
rocking base runs on chair legs, l, 2, 3.
He doesn’t miss the volume – crowd, sportscaster, or ump.
I do. I listen to car radio.
Watching him watch TV under the circle of light,
my gabby trio punt rounds of comment, 1, 2, 3.
Sad child-man, Saturday’s chump, Identity-challenged.
All true, I think, a part of me forever Red Sox.
Is his must-wear shirt a gift from member of the team?
— step-brother, perhaps, now pinch-hitting for the Rays,
seeking conciliation, game-time Dad, his dad,
way back when, extra tickets only for uncles.
A pity, but no game without fans the trio says.
My national pastime, poems, syllables, 1, 2, 3,
do they read me as player, fan, or hatless numbskull
watching them watch someone else watching bar-room TV?